


When All Else In You Turns And Runs

by sapphire2309



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Presumed Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-15 09:46:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2224458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphire2309/pseuds/sapphire2309
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal has to leave New York. He absolutely cannot stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When All Else In You Turns And Runs

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-anklet. The prompt and the title are both from Vienna Teng's Love Turns 40.  
> For Challenge 24 - August Table of Doom - at writerverse (LJ)
> 
> I feel like you should know that words aren't coming all that easily to me. I'm struggling against them, for the most part. And I have this weird block about posting writing as of late. But this fic happened relatively easily, and I want to share :)

Neal's a bit of a legend. As much as Peter tries to play it down, he knows that, it's true. He still notices people shooting him curious glances that are carefully averted when he turns around. Cons. He's still talked about, his heists and cons are still as brilliant as they were fifteen years ago. It's surprising, but not entirely unexpected.

He panders to this fan club - of course he does - with card tricks and fast talk. Nothing illegal. But just enough to let people know that he's more than capable of returning to the glory days of chocolate forgeries and carrier pigeons.

When even that is taken from him, when card tricks become a distant dream and sleight of hand becomes impossible, he has to leave.

He absolutely cannot stay.

He quickly puts together a go-bag. Stupid, _stupid_ , to think that he'd ever be done running, that he could ever actually settle down. He should have been prepared for this. But he isn't. And it's all too fast, and there are so many people he wants to say goodbye to, but if this is going to work, if people are going to believe that he's dead, that he went with a bang, he can't wait for even a second.

He makes a few strategic phone calls, sets a rumour mill going. He gets himself a flight out of the country. To Paris. He's going to Paris. It's the obvious choice, it's the first place people would look for him, but he hasn't got the FBI on his tail anymore. And if he's discreet, even Moz won't be able to find him.

Paris sounds nice.

-:-

The rumour mill works better than Neal could have anticipated. By the next morning, there's wildly conflicting reports - Neal was brutally murdered by someone with a grudge, he pulled the cord too late while BASE jumping, he impaled himself on his latest art project.

The FBI hears all of them.

-:-

Peter is the first person Diana calls. He isn't in the office yet, he's probably on his way up by now, but this can't wait, not even for two minutes.

She steps into the empty elevator, digs out her phone and makes the call.

"Neal might be dead," she says, as soon as he answers. If she lingers over it, she might break down herself.

"No. _No._ " Peter sounds bewildered. That makes sense, she thinks absently. This was completely unexpected.

"His cell phone's unreachable. No one's seen him since he left yesterday. There's a rumour mill going, that can't have started out of thin air. And he’s late. He’s never late." The last point is probably the most convincing.

"Neal's not dead. Neal can't be dead." She can almost hear Peter working out the possibilities, pushing and shoving the variables till they're all in a neat row that says _Neal's alive_. "Maybe... he faked his death. Maybe someone from his past found him, maybe he needed to leave. Maybe..." Peter talks on.

Diana lets him. She wants to believe it herself. That it's just a joke, that Neal's going to laugh at them, that's he's _alive_ , but she steels herself and finally says, "Boss."

Peter stops.

"There's more." She doesn’t want to say the rest. "A body was found washed up on the bank of the East River. Severe burns across the body, they don't have fingerprints. But they ran his face through the software and it was a partial match for Neal's."

"Oh god," Peter says hoarsely.

 _Okay_ , she thinks. _That’s done._ "I'm leaving right now, for the morgue, to see if I can ID him. I thought I- you shouldn't have to do that."

The line goes quiet.

She doesn’t look for things to say. She hardly believes any of this herself.

There's nothing to say, nothing that could bring some sense to this day.

"I'll check June's studio," Peter says like he doesn’t really think it’ll make a difference.

She nods and hangs up.

She's driven halfway to the morgue when she realizes that she ended the phone call quite unceremoniously.

-:-

Peter can't shake the belief that Neal would have left something behind, even if he’d fled, just to let them know that he’s still alive.

He has to believe it.

He lingers pointlessly at the door before finally opening it.

"Neal," he sees, he says, like a sigh of relief.

Neal's right there, at the head of the table, staring at a duffel bag. He hasn't turned to face him - that should be a warning; Neal always knows when Peter's on his way up. But after really, truly considering the possibility that Neal was gone (not dead, _never_ dead), he's so relieved to see him that he doesn't notice that Neal's not okay, not till he finally starts talking.

"I couldn't," Neal says. "I was going to leave, and I couldn't."

Neal doesn’t turn around. Instead, he holds out his hand and flexes the muscles, then relaxes them, slowly, rhythmically, and Peter’s so caught in that simple movement that he forgets that he’s standing in a doorway, forgets why he’s there, forgets everything, till Neal’s hand starts to shake.

Neal doesn't try to hide it. Doesn't ball his right hand into a fist and absorb the tremor with his left. Just holds his hand out in Peter’s general direction and doesn't try to stop the shaking. He knows too well that the tremor won't stop because he wants it to.

"They thought it was Parkinson's. But it's just... an essential tremor." He lets his hand drop to his side and shakes his head. "An essential tremor," he says again, slowly. "I can't draw, I can't write, I'm five steps away from not being able to use a fork.” He pauses to breathe. “But it's essential!" he says brightly.

Neal forces air out of his lungs because if he stops breathing, he'll start crying.  It's a laugh, it's a cough, it's something, some emotion, making its way out. He's glad. It's better than staring at a duffel bag that has everything he needs but nothing he wants.

"You're still here," he says carefully, because it could be the wrong thing to say, it could hurt Neal even worse, but Peter needs to feel those words, needs to reassure himself first.

"I wish I'd left." Neal turns to the balcony.

Peter doesn’t try to approach Neal. He knows himself well. He needs to wait till he has a vague idea of what to do, or else he’ll trip over himself and things will be worse than they were. So he waits.

When Neal starts talking again, his voice is surprisingly steady. "I can't forge anything now. I can't do anything that involves using my hand, and everything I do involves using my hand. I don't know what to do without- I _need_ my hand." Neal finally turns and looks at Peter. His eyes are wild, afraid, _terrified._

He's boxed into a corner that makes him want to set everything on fire and run from the blaze, but he's still here. He's still _here_. And Peter can't ignore that, can't write that off as an easy feat. Neal wanted to run, he could have, should have run, but he didn't.

He steps closer to Neal, reaches for his hand, holds it in both his own and says, "You can still feel that." He feels Neal’s nails dig into his palm, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t let go. He looks Neal straight in the eye and tries to say, _I'm right here, I'll help you,_ but he’s still shooting in the dark. "You can still use your mind," he says, and it feels like the right thing to say, so he lets that hang comfortably in the air for a moment before he says it again, "You can still use your mind," like a lifeline, like a promise. “You can still think,” a variation, because repetition can get boring, or something like that. “You’re still brilliant.”

Neal’s letting him do this, he can see that. Neal’s jaw is strained and he isn’t quite making eye contact, but he’s permitting this, and Peter’s thankful for that.

"What if that isn't enough?" Neal finally says. His voice cracks slightly. He looks straight at Peter, breathing like he’s in pain, he _is_ in pain.

"Then we'll figure something out.”

Neal tries to nod, but the nod somehow morphs into a violent shudder. He turns away, hides.

Peter doesn’t let him. He pulls Neal closer, hugs him, no, engulfs him, lets him disappear for a moment. He doesn’t let go, not for a while, because Neal will never admit it but he’s crying into Peter’s shoulder, shaking in his arms (this can't be the tremor, this isn't the tremor), he needs to feel safe, and Peter can’t deny him that.

-:-

Neal doesn’t pull away from Peter. Somehow, this is an acceptable substitute to hiding. He doesn’t overthink it, he has to focus on breathing and controlling the shivers coursing through his body (that’s not the tremor, the tremor’s only in his hand, the rest of his body’s still his own, thankfully).

Eventually, once he’s steadier, he lets go, steps back awkwardly. There are still tear tracks on his face, probably, but once they’re gone he’ll look fine.

He shoots a half smile at Peter, wipes his face on his sleeve, and heads out to the balcony.

Peter follows. “Do you want to leave?” he asks.

Neal turns to him, mildly surprised.

“You said you wished you’d left. Do you want to leave? Because I can cover for you. Or, try to. If this is something you need.” Peter’s phone rings. They both ignore it. “Neal.”

“No. I’ll stay.”

It isn’t difficult, the decision. He’s here, he hasn’t left yet, and Peter can’t keep something this big from Elizabeth, not without her finding out anyway.

Also, he might possibly want to stay.

Peter takes one look at his phone and sets it on speaker. Neal briefly catches Diana’s voice, “ _It’s not Neal,”_ but Peter cuts her off too quickly – “Neal’s here.”

“Hey, Diana,” he says weakly.

There’s a brief pause.

_“I’m burying you in cold cases for the next month.”_

Neal laughs, really laughs, he isn’t disguising anything at all this time. Peter purposefully moves away to talk to Diana, but it probably doesn’t help. He laughs, too much, far too much, and it feels good, it makes him lighter. By the time Peter’s off the phone, Neal’s leaning against the wall, laughter dissolved into hiccups, breathing a little harder than is usual.

“You’re okay,” Peter says.

“I’m okay,” Neal agrees. “For now,” he says more soberly.

“Hey.” Peter shifts so he’s leaning against the piece of wall next to him. “We’ll figure this out.”

“Yeah.”

And somehow, all the silly little things that mattered so much earlier don’t make a difference. He doesn’t care how the young street cons see him. He’s got his family. They’ll help. They’ll bury him in paperwork.


End file.
